Side of the Demons
by MadDragon13
Summary: When Sherlock (then called Khan) finally recovered the 72 cryopods, he discovered that something was missing. Three very important somethings, in fact. Colonel Graff is living on borrowed time. Sequel to Demons Run - read that first! Est. Johnlock, parentlock, kind of Khanlock.


**A/N: So I kind of hate Peter with a passion, so I basically replaced him with Hamish. (And let's face it; with parents like John and Sherlock it's much less likely Peter would have turned out like he did.) Enjoy, and tell me what you think! :D**

* * *

Coming out of cryosleep was like floating up from the bottom of a deep, cold pool.

Hamish detachedly observed the muffled voices and blurred figures on the other side of the glass panel, observed the feeling return to his arms and legs and warm air begin to filter into the pod with a hiss.

He gave his fingers an experimental wiggle. They were stiff with cold. _How long has it been?_

A jolt of fear made its presence known in his stomach for the first time. Where was he? What was going on? There had to be a reason for waking him. Where were the others?

He ran a quick scan of his brain. Memories intact? _Hamish Peter Holmes-Watson, age 9, blond curly hair, blue eyes, four foot six. Placed in cryosleep for own protection, to be woken when the danger posed by fear and ignorance of Augments had passed, along with Sherlock, John, Valentine, and Ender (Andrew) Holmes-Watson. Fathers, younger sister by two years, younger brother by four, respectively. _Deductions? Unable to test at this time. Knowledge? Seems all there.

Three seconds after Hamish regained consciousness, the pod's door opened. Jarring light and noise flooded in, blinding him, and Hamish felt his brain recoil at the sudden stimulation. Rough hands were seizing his upper arms and pulling him out of the pod. He was yanked to his feet, stumbling and blinking. The faces around him were set into identical officious, businesslike scowls, none of which Hamish recognized.

This wasn't right. Where were Dad and Papa? Or Val and Ender? Were they okay? They were supposed to be all woken together, when it was safe. His deduction systems were slowly booting up again, providing him with just enough information to know that _safe _certainly wasn't here.

"Where am I?"

The hands tightened around his arms. His voice was scratchy and hoarse.

"You are Hamish Peter Holmes-Watson?" inquired a gruff, rather podgy man holding a clipboard.

Hamish nodded. "Where are – "

"Don't speak unless ordered," the man cut him off, scribbling self-importantly. "Consider yourself a prisoner of Starfleet from this point forth. Answer the following question yes or no only: are you the eldest son of Sherlock and John Holmes-Watson?"

_Prisoner of Starfleet? Something's gone wrong, obviously. What about the others?! _"'Course. Where's my family?"

The grip on his arms was now painful. Was it really necessary to cut off circulation? The podgy man stepped forward, placing his face uncomfortably close. "I was told you were intelligent. Still disoriented from cryosleep, is that it? Tell me, what part of _yes or no only _did you not understand?"

Was he hoping to gain anything by humiliating him? If so, he'd be disappointed. Hamish glared.

"Right, I guess it does say in your report you're quiet under pressure. So tell me, in which pods are your siblings? Valentine and Andrew?"

Hamish couldn't pass this up. "Would you like me to answer _yes or no only?"_

The man raised a hand and smacked Hamish across the face.

Even while reeling – honestly, why hadn't he seen this coming – Hamish analyzed the blow. It hadn't been particularly hard – meant more as a reprimand than an expression of anger. Quick, professional, emotionless. Intended to assert the man's position of power. It had worked rather; Hamish wasn't intent on doing that again. Inform the despot or continue to be subjected to this crude attempt to threaten him obliquely?

His siblings were surprisingly good at taking care of themselves, and it was generally better if the three of them were together. "Val's 18, Ender's 56."

Podgy nodded curtly and marched off down the row of cryopods. Hamish watched interestedly as his siblings were retrieved and escorted, doubtless as confused as he was, back to where he was leaning against the small table on which his pod rested. The guards still hadn't seen fit to let go of his arms. He wondered if it was possible to get gangrene like this.

Valentine's long brown hair was messy and tangled. She yawned. "Hamish? What's happening?"

"Yeah, where're the Dads?" Ender looked worried, dark brows furrowed and nearly touching in the middle of his forehead.

Hamish shrugged wordlessly and raised an eyebrow at Podgy.

"Children, please follow me to my office. I'll explain everything there."

Hamish glanced at Ender and Val and smirked. Soon they were all suppressing morbid giggles. _He's so polite, almost as if we have a choice!_ The odd reaction was probably triggered by stress, and by the underlying disgust at being referred to as children, but the looks they were getting from the soldiers were entertaining.

After being marched down a corridor, they entered a large but bland office-type room. A monumental ebony desk with intricate, baroque designs took up much of the space. Seated behind it, playing the part of 'sinister bureaucrat' perfectly, was a very grim-looking man in the pristine gray and black uniform of a Starfleet admiral.

The podgy one sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair off to the side of the monolithic desk and looked subservient. Hamish didn't dare glance at his siblings. He was sure they were all thinking the same thing: _your office. Got it. Right._

"Thank you, Graff," said the man. He turned to the trio and leaned forward. Despite being seated, he somehow managed to tower over them. Most likely the desk was giving him an unfair advantage in height.

"I'll keep this short and to the point, children. My name is Admiral Marcus. The year is 2257. War with the Klingon Empire is inescapable, and Starfleet is enlisting the services of precocious young children such as yourselves to combat this disastrous inevitability. You will be sent to Battle School, a top-secret facility in outer space, where you will train and be trained by other child geniuses in the art of war and strategy. In a few years, when the inevitable invasion occurs, it's young men and women like you that will make Starfleet invincible."

Valentine's mouth formed a question, but Marcus cut her off. "You're wondering, why should we do this? We have no obligations to Starfleet, no loyalty, no reasons whatever to go along with this man's somewhat unethical plan. You three are the most instrumental part of Battle School itself. Your brains are ready to become the most bright and beautiful of the whole human race. All you need is a reason why. And I'll give you a reason why."

He leaned forward even more, and Hamish took an involuntary step back. His eyes were hard and cold, and something almost demonic shone in them. "If you don't – if you step out of line, if you try to rebel or escape even once – I will pull every single person out of these cryopods and kill them."

A dull buzzing invaded Hamish's senses. It was like the numbness that followed being woken up from cryosleep, but worse, because it was accompanied by a heavy pit of sudden dread in his stomach.

"Now, your reports say that your entire family is known for your incredible powers of observation and deduction. Look at my face and tell me, am I lying to you?"

Of course he wasn't, Hamish had absorbed the signs of psychopathy and truth almost unconsciously. Val was the best at reading people, but even Hamish knew how to tell if someone was lying or not. It had been one of the earliest things Dad had taught them, and was quite simple once you knew how to do it.

Silence still lay heavy in the air. It occurred to Hamish that they wanted him to answer. Normally he'd refuse, just to spite them, or at least respond with some level of snark.

"No," he said quietly. He found Valentine's and Ender's hands and squeezed them.

Valentine was trying not to be obvious about blinking back tears, and succeeding moderately. Ender's face was blank and hard, his only outward expression of emotion the tight, painful pressure around Hamish's hand.

They were escorted, still numb, through a maze of corridors and to a small shuttle. Hamish's brain was just functioning enough to appreciate the irony of it all. Their hands weren't tied; they weren't being physically restrained in any way. They were surrounded by a loose formation only. As far as he could tell, the guards were even unarmed. But he had never been more trapped in his life. And Marcus and Graff knew this, and were obviously exploiting it. Somehow that was the most terrifying thing of all.

They were put in separate glass cells for the duration of the shuttle ride. They had been ordered not to speak. Hamish wasn't sure if he would have been able to form words had he been allowed anyway.

Valentine was doing something with her hands. She could have been messing with her shirt, or picking at a hangnail, but Hamish and Ender recognized it immediately as their consolidated version of sign language that they had invented out of boredom.

_They can't keep us forever. What'll happen after the war?_

Hamish nodded and signed back. _We'll get through it._

Ender added his two cents to the conversation. _We're different. Different will be dangerous._

_ I know, _Val signed. _I think it might be a bad idea for people – the people we meet there – to know our real last name._

_ We need a code. _Hamish thought for a while, then began slowly signing. _W. I. G. G. I. N._

Ender quickly invented a sign for it. A combination of the crossed fingers of "lie" and the double valleys of W.

_Ender Wiggin, Valkyrie Wiggin, _signed Hamish, using the old nicknames he had made up.

_Hamish the Destroyer, _they replied. His mostly-joking nickname had never been used in more solemn circumstances.

_Love you, _they all managed to sign simultaneously.

The flight ended. In silence, they were released from the glass cages.

Before being separated, marched down different hallways to begin a powerless new life, Hamish Wiggin managed to sign one final message. If this was to be his siblings' last memory of him, he wanted it to be one of hope.

_We'll get through it, _he repeated again and again, trying to believe his own hands. _We'll get through it._


End file.
